


Queen of the Reef

by SolarPoweredFlashlight



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22541065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarPoweredFlashlight/pseuds/SolarPoweredFlashlight
Summary: Summoned to the Reef for debriefing on the hunt for a returned enemy, Petra is called to the Queen's chambers for a lesson in patience she'll never forget.
Relationships: Mara Sov/Petra Venj
Comments: 7
Kudos: 75





	Queen of the Reef

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CourierNinetyTwo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/gifts).



Petra’s pulse picks up as she approaches the Antechamber to her Queen’s innermost sanctuary. She has been there before, a time or two, for private conferences that were only private by virtue of being somewhere more intimate than a throne room or an easily monitored comm line. 

Never, she thinks to herself, in the middle of the night. Never without Uldren or one of the Paladins present. 

The hallways feel like they should echo, like her heels should clack and announce her presence, but the elegant sound-muffling floors do not grant her this boon. Instead her progress is tracked by sentries - all Awoken, she notes absently. Only a week ago she might have expected to see Fallen among the innermost hallways of this sanctuary. She wonders if they’ve gotten all the blood out yet. So much for that dream of harmony. 

_So much for the Kell of Wolves_ , whispers an angry voice in her mind. No, not angry. It doesn’t taste of anger, or even of the seductive and self-fulfilling righteousness of wrath. It’s… ah, but of course it is. It’s _excitement_. She damns Skolas with every quiet step closer to her Queen, and yes, even quietly damns the Nine a little for allowing him to slip back into the Solar System, but there’s no tamping down the immeasurable thrill she feels to be returning to the field. 

She reaches the door and kneels before it. A pause. Her pulse ticks loudly against her jaw, eager to know what Her Grace wants at this hour, but terrified of what it might be. After the formal return to the Queen’s favor this afternoon, she was notified that there would be a second meeting, but not what it would entail. Just enough notice that she made a point to bathe and dress well, but not so much that she’s had more than a few hours to stew in uncertainty. 

The door opens. 

“You may enter,” Mara says, and her voice is like nectar. Petra isn’t oblivious; in all her time within the City, she’s heard the Earthborn mutter about the Queen of the Reef and her cold, imperious, unfeeling nature. It took a while to learn not to scoff at people openly when they made those kinds of comments; in time she learned to think of them simply as inexperienced through lack of exposure, like the difference between someone who eats to survive and someone who relishes the flavours of their food. They simply have not developed the sensory organs to hear beyond the careful neutrality, to detect the various ingredients that underlie the calm. 

For Petra, there has always been something deeply pleasurable in the sound of Mara’s voice. She rises and allows herself to be drawn in by its timbre. The door shuts behind her, and she does a quick military scan of the room: empty, save for the Queen. Petra approaches just to the edge of appropriate distance and kneels once more. To be alone with her at all is an honor, a quiet mark of approval after years of silent censure. Her jaw goes tight. 

“My Queen,” Petra says, forehead brushing the fine carpet. It isn’t necessary, this utter prostration, but she has much to atone for. Somewhere inside of her - in her chest, she thinks, if she were pressed to pinpoint it - there is a tight ball of fear that this task will be taken away from her if she isn’t careful. She leaves for the Vestian Outpost tomorrow, but royalty reserve the right to change their minds with very little notice. 

“You quiver,” Mara Sov says, without preamble. She sounds amused. 

“Your Grace?” Petra asks the carpet, willing herself to further stillness. Has her time as Ambassador softened her so much that she cannot master simply holding still? 

“You are taut like a bow,” the Queen continues, narrating reality with that utter certainty she always seems to have. “Impatient to be released. But perhaps I am partly to blame for that.” 

“Please forgive me, my Queen,” Petra says, fighting the urge to blurt the apology and prove Mara’s point with her eager inelegance. “I have been away from home for so long. But I am the one to blame for that, not you. It was my poor choice that exiled me, and - “

“That will be enough,” Mara says. She is firm. There are a thousand notes of contributing feelings in that unyielding tone, Petra thinks. She hopes it isn’t just her imagination suggesting that fondness is one of them. “I did not bring you here to watch you grovel.” 

Petra’s not sure what to say to that, so she waits. She counts her heartbeats. One. Two. Three. At fourteen - ah, her heart is going fast, still - Mara speaks again. 

“Sometimes I forget how very young you are,” she says. “And what it’s like to be so young, so malleable. Of course I’m responsible. I knew what shape I forged you to when I assigned you to the Corsairs after Amethyst.” Petra can only barely hear the Queen walking closer to where she kneels. Her heart goes faster. She dares not speak. “A blade,” Mara whispers. 

“ _Your_ blade, my Queen,” Petra says, and this she says without hesitation, because it is the truest thing about her in this moment. There is a pause. Then:

“I would see your face,” Mara says. Petra almost wants to laugh, thinking of the opacity of the statement to any Earthborn Awoken, thinking of how rich and emotive of a command it is to her ears. She lifts her head and meets the eyes of her Queen, and does not look away even as she straightens her back to face Mara on her knees. “Good,” says the Queen, and warmth suffuses Petra’s body at the praise. 

Petra holds her eyes a moment more, then looks away. She is as magnificent as a lightning storm. She imagines perhaps that up close, Mara might smell of ozone and crackle with electricity upon the tongue. Yes, better to keep her eye on the floor and her mind on the present. 

“You did not make me, my Queen. That questionable honor belongs to Drevis.” Petra might spit, were she anywhere but the Queen’s Antechamber. Mara regards her, arms crossed thoughtfully behind her back. 

“Your thinking lacks a sense of scale, Petra. Drevis and Skolas both were a product of my decision to intercept Virixas at Ceres. Mine was the word that began the chain of events. I might have kept the Awoken out of the Traveler’s wars and spared you and many others a great amount of loss and pain. Your soul would never have been plunged into the superheated forge of war, had I chosen differently.”

“Do you regret that choice, your Grace?” The words are out of Petra’s mouth before she can stop them, but they are gentle and full of compassion despite the gravity of the conversation. It almost makes her want to cringe. Mara Sov has no need of a soldier’s compassion. 

“No,” Mara says. “I do not have the luxury of regret.” There is more she wants to say on this matter, Petra thinks - but perhaps it’s a conversation Mara would rather have with her brother, or one of her Paladins. Something about the turning wheel of time and how it relates to the centuries-spanning plan for the Awoken that Petra knows her Queen has carefully managed her entire reign. Petra looks up at Mara’s eyes again, and feels herself being studied. “I cannot afford to regret,” Mara reiterates, “but I will claim some responsibility for the shaping of your path. You were young and directionless, and full of fury. Fury is another thing I do not have the right to indulge in, as a ruler, but in _you_ , I might at last give it form once more.”

Fury. A synonym for Wrath. Petra does not allow herself to consider this possibility for more than an instant. Sjur Eido is not a figure easily replaced. Petra would never be worthy of such an honor.

“You were so useful in those early years that I neglected to tend to the shaping of what I had begun in you,” Mara goes on. Petra’s face feels warm; she can hardly believe the Queen ever really paid that much attention to her during the Reef Wars. “Decisiveness is a good skill in a Corsair. But a blade must be tempered, and what I forgot to teach was the importance of patience.” Mara steps closer; Petra’s pulse leaps. Irrationally, she takes a deep breath in and searches the air for the smell of lightning. “I knew you would be useful to me, back then.” The words are like a deep draft of strong alcohol; Petra’s limbs tingle with them. “But now I’ve come to see I may very well _need_ you.”

“My Queen,” Petra murmurs urgently, gaze rising to meet Mara’s once more, “I am yours.” 

“This I know,” Mara says. “I require more from you than just your loyalty. I require faith. And faith in the face of many trials demands _patience_ , Petra.” Petra swallows. 

“I will strive to be worthy of your trust, your Grace.” 

“Your exile served more than one purpose, you know. It protected Uldren, politically, for taking the blame. It was his fighter wing that made the pass, and the Speaker could easily have demanded the Prince of the Reef be punished. And instead I saw clearly the opportunity to teach you a lesson about patience that you could only come by through long suffering and enduring faith. That was the lesson I had hoped you’d learn from your time in the City - the patience to wait out your sentence, the faith to serve me without question although you could not see the path home. I have lived for centuries; it has happened that decades or more will pass before a piece falls into place just so. You have had your first taste of this manner of patience - I hope that you will not discard this education in your eagerness for the hunt for Skolas.”

“I will not fail you again, my Queen. I understand there is no need to rush into this hunt headlong: he could not escape us the first time,” Petra says, her earlier enthusiasm shamed into a more solemn ferocity, “and he will not escape me now.” At this, a small smile turns the corner of Mara’s mouth. 

“And will you return from this hunt the way you returned from Cybele, swaggering and smoldering like a proud beast in rut?” Heat rushes to Petra’s face. 

“I - I don’t know what you’re talking about, my Queen.” 

“You were as polite as you possibly could be about it,” Mara says, quietly and _definitely_ smug, “but I saw the way you looked at me, when you were riding the high of victory.” She does not say _before the valley_ ; it seems the chastising part of the evening is done. 

“My Queen,” Petra says, her gaze rooted firmly once more to the carpet. “Please forgive me my indiscretion.”

“So,” Mara says, and now Petra is quite certain there’s the dappled sunlight touch of laughter somewhere in her voice, “you don’t deny it?”

“Your Grace,” Petra chokes -

“When we are alone, Petra Venj, I would have you call me ‘my lady’.” 

“I - yes, my lady.” And oh, she knows how transparent she is, as those words leave her lips. Mara will know without question that the burning, hungry, guileless glances of young, foolish Petra hot off the Cybele Uprising victory are not a thing of the past. That desire never went away. That part of Petra never went away. There is another silence, and now, now Petra thinks she can even _taste_ the laughter rising from Mara, the way sometimes you can taste the ether coming off a fresh Fallen corpse. It’s unbearable now because Petra understands these silences for what they are: tests of patience. The night, she realizes, has been sprinkled with them. She waits. And waits. 

The reward, when it comes, is so surprising that she shudders: Mara reaches out and caresses her face. The Queen has never touched her before. 

“You knew,” Petra whispers, relishing the way Mara’s thumb is drawn to the edge of her mouth by the motion. 

“Yes,” Mara says. “I felt your eye on me and knew it for what it was.” 

“And did you make me wait to learn this, my lady, as yet another test of patience?” She’s teasing now, giddy and loose at the physical contact. She shouldn’t be talking to her Queen like this. 

“No.” Those fingers trace down lightly to where Petra’s jaw meets her neck. “There was simply no other option than to leave your questioning stare unanswered, unacknowledged. You were too young. Too full of worship. It would have been taking advantage of you.”

“I can say with confidence, my lady,” Petra says, with the softness of a confession, “I would have very much liked for you to take advantage of me at the time.” A soft huff; indignation? Amusement? 

“And what of now, my Tempered Blade? Now that you’ve seen more of the Solar System and spent some time resenting me for exiling you to that Tower, would you still like that?”

In answer, Petra smiles and turns her head to softly kiss her Queen’s knuckles. The gesture is caught somewhere between ritual obeisance and sincere affection - perhaps too sincere. But it feels right, and to Petra’s relief Mara doesn’t draw away.

“I could never resent you, my lady,” she says. It seems like a dream. They aren’t actually discussing what Petra thinks they’re discussing, are they? This is certainly just to sate Mara’s curiosity. There’s no way the interest is reciprocated, she just needs to know, as Queen, what the motives and mental states of her trusted servants are. That’s all, and it is beyond Petra to deny her the truth, even this embarrassing one. 

“Then I would like to offer you a proposition, warrior mine. A personal lesson in patience you will not soon forget.” Not sure she understands, Petra bows her head obediently. 

“What you would bestow upon me, my lady, I will not hesitate to accept,” she says, hoping to cloak her confusion in formality. With her head bowed, Petra cannot see what small expressions cross Mara’s face at this, but she does hear the soft noise of disapproval, does feel the hand withdraw. Damn! She’s made a mistake. What should she have said instead?

And then Mara Sov lifts her chin with a steady, gentle force. She does not use her hands. Heat flushes Petra’s body, to be moved and manipulated so by the direct will of the Queen, and she fights to keep her sudden state of arousal from being written clearly on her face. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle upwards. 

“This is not a mission assignment, Petra,” Mara says, and Petra shivers, certain the Queen has never said her name quite like that before. “It is not something I give and expect you to take unquestioning. In this, you always have the right to say no.” 

“My - my lady, given leave to ask questions - “ ugh, there’s that rigid formality again, trying to spackle away the fundamental gaps in her understanding - “I’m not really sure I follow what you’re saying,” Petra admits, resigning herself to simple language for a simple truth. And now, because she’s already looking at her Queen, she sees the dance of amusement in those deep-glacier eyes, sees the slip of a mask and the flicker of open hunger. 

“I am asking if you would like to join me in my bedroom tonight,” Mara purrs. “You call yourself mine in so many ways already; if you consent, I will make you mine in every way.” 

Oh. _Oh_. 

“Yes,” Petra says, soft as breath, “yes.” 

“Then come,” the Queen says, and behind her the door to her inner chambers whirrs open.

Petra follows her inside. Once there, she’s suddenly frozen with awkwardness. She almost wishes this could have happened back during the war, when she was full of momentum. It’s harder to launch back into action after so much time spent standing still, so much time wishing. To have it all laid out in front of her like this - it doesn’t feel real. She doesn’t know where to start. 

“You can change your mind at any time,” Mara says, serene and certain. “You need only speak if you wish me to stop or slow anything that I do. Do you understand?” 

“I understand, my lady,” Petra says, and saying those words feels like surrendering herself to the reality that this is actually happening, to accepting that in this vast and complex reality there truly does exist the possibility that she’s about to be bedded by the Queen of the Reef. 

“Good,” says the Queen. “Now take off your clothes.” 

Petra huffs with shock and arousal, and takes two whole seconds to collect herself again before her hands fly to her own neckline and begin the process of frantically disrobing. Mara watches, no smile on her mouth but a broad smirk written in the arch of her back and the way she rests her hands on her hips. Prickles of anticipation race across Petra’s back as the cool of the air hits newly exposed skin. She feels ungainly and clumsy, like this. All those years of training, of reflexes honed in battle, and here in the Queen’s bedchamber she nearly topples sideways when her foot is caught in a pant leg. 

Mara doesn’t wait long. As soon as Petra is fully exposed, she crosses the room in an effortless stride and gestures to the floor at the foot of the bed. 

“Kneel for me,” Mara says. Petra goes to her indicated place in a dreamlike state, feeling like she’s beginning to float. She kneels, and looks up at Mara. She feels… peaceful, in a way, despite all of her excitement and arousal. There’s always been such utter certainty in following Mara’s orders, and such relief to know that her Queen has a plan and knows Petra’s place in it. Even in this moment - _especially_ in this moment - Petra breathes easy because of how completely she trusts Mara. 

And then the Queen’s fingers brush against the edge of her eyepatch, and tension stiffens her back. 

“My lady,” Petra says quickly, nervously, “it - it isn’t pretty, under there. You… might not like what you see.” Mara’s hand pauses, but does not withdraw. 

“I have not always been a Queen, you know,” she says quietly. “A little asymmetry cannot hurt my sensibilities; the sight of an old injury will not undo me.” She strokes her thumb along Petra’s cheekbone, just below the patch. “But if you ask for your sake, and not mine, we can leave this where it is.” Petra feels her face grow hot.

“Can we leave it for now?” She feels a little foolish, kneeling naked before a Queen and asking to keep this small piece of herself concealed, but Mara reassures her with a soft, sacred kiss to the forehead that makes Petra feel like she’s full of sunlight. 

“Of course,” Mara says, in conclusion, and that’s that. It’s one of the things Petra finds so comforting about her Queen’s leadership - the calm certainty. This is what she’s decided, and so this is how it will be. Petra allows her one good eye to flutter shut at the next soft touch of Mara’s hand to her cheek, settling into comfortable darkness. She follows the path of that touch with her mind’s eye: idly wandering down her neck, softly brushing across her collarbone, and - 

\- _oh!_ \- coming to cup one of breasts and seize ownership of her nipple. Her eye flies open again, and her breath hitches. She feels her body answer that touch with a chorus of enthusiasm. 

“You _are_ beautiful,” Mara says, holding Petra’s eye for a moment before dropping her gaze down to drink in the sight of Petra naked before her. “And you are mine.” 

“Yes, my lady,” Petra breathes, warm, so warm, between her thighs. “I am yours.”

“Tonight, Petra Venj, I claim you,” Mara murmurs against her ear. When did she get so close? “And you will learn what rewards await you when you are patient.” Petra tries to reply, and all that comes out of her throat is a tremor of sound, almost a whimper. 

It is an evening that Petra will treasure for the rest of her life. 

She thinks of it often, when Mara is gone and presumed - by others - to be dead. She thinks of it during the hunt for Skolas when she’s far from the Reef, thinks of it in bed while she touches herself and in passing for weeks every time someone so much as mentions the Queen of the Reef. 

Her favourite memory:

The blue glow of Mara’s eyes highlighting her inner thighs. Mara looks up at her, and a smirk tugs the corner of her lips. She says two words:

“Don’t come.” 

And then the light is extinguished; she closes her eyes, and begins her lesson a third time, and then a fourth, and then a fifth.

Patience. 

She’s three fingers knuckle deep in Petra on the sixth lesson when the dam of Petra’s self control bursts and she’s begging, begging, begging.

Permission, at last, and then white hot ecstasy. Petra understands the intensity of her trembling and convulsing only by the countering strength of Mara’s will pinning her limbs down as she ruthlessly brings her to the promised conclusion. 

As she’s falling asleep, Mara whispers to her. They are words of comfort and reassurance at a scale Petra could never have imagined she’d be entitled to; in the afterglow of lovemaking, the Queen of the Reef quietly outlines the shape of the last three centuries of Awoken. 

The next morning, Petra thinks, somehow, that the Queen explained the entirety of her magnificent plan for their people: all they’ve ever been, and all that they will one day be. But the details evade her, like smoke between her fingers, and by the afternoon all Petra knows is that she trusts Mara even more than she ever did before. 

Before she leaves on the hunt for Skolas and his traitorous followers, Petra is made Queen’s Wrath. It feels right now, because she understands at last that she has a place in the plan. It doesn’t matter if she believes she’s worthy - what matters is that Mara Sov does. 


End file.
